“Might as well be.” Betty tossed the syringe into a red container labeled ‘sharps’ and grabbed another sterile needle, the packaging crinkling softly. “He wants to make sure you’re not going to be a vector to any clients.”

Clients. What a polite euphemism.

(“Ah, sunshine, I’m going to miss having you all to myself. But it would be a waste, considering how much people would pay to fuck an O’Hare.”)

Betty noticed the way Liza’s face darkened with memory and understanding. She set the needle down and stripped off her nitrile gloves with a sigh. Liza thought she didn’t have any more tears to cry but somehow, some way, more pricked at her bloodshot eyes.

“You told me you wanted to live.”

“…I do.” Liza felt like she sounded desperate. (She was.) “I just…fuck. Fuck, I don’t - fuck.”

She jumped when a soft hand landed on her bare shoulder. Betty didn’t squeeze the bruises mottled under her skin. She looked around the bedroom - cleaned while Betty bathed her in the bathroom. The tangled sheets, the blood, the stench of sex and misery whisked away and replaced with fresh, soft linens and a gentle breeze from the window.

“You have time. Most of these vaccinations require a booster and Mr. Clay won’t work you until you’re immunized.” Liza shot Betty a withering look, but she continued. “You’ll have at least two weeks of bedrest. He doesn’t want you looking a mess - it’s bad for business.”

“The business of renting me out like a cheap whore - ?”

The slap startled her, though the pain of Betty’s palm hitting her already bruised face stung in the aftermath.

“Ow - ”

“You have no idea the position you’re in, do you?” There was something almost envious in her biting tone. “Cheap whores get fucked until they’re pregnant or worthless or both. You’re a goddamn pedigree prize horse. Mr. Clay will keep you safe from people who will do worse - ”

“Worse than raping me?!” Liza raised her voice, for a split second wondering if a neighbor had heard. (And what Clay would do to her if he thought she was trying to call for help - ) Betty’s hand cupped Liza’s bruised cheek, tilting her eyes up to face her.

“Yes. Much worse than that. I’m not saying you should be grateful. I’m saying you should be smart.” Betty stepped away to wash and reglove her hands. “Mr. Clay will keep you close. Maybe too close for your comfort, but…”

“…but what?” Liza asked, voice small and choked with defeat. Betty returned to her side with another needle at the ready.

“If you wanna stay alive, you need to keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.” Betty took Liza’s bruised arm. “Quick pinch…you’re doing great, love.”

Liza shuddered at the praise. At least Betty didn’t call her ‘sunshine.’

“You need to relax. It hurts worse when you’re tense like this.”

“Getting shots or getting fucked?” Liza breathed some bitterness into her rhetorical question. But Betty answered anyway.

“Both. Breathe, love. Just breathe and it will be over with before you know it.”

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(Part of my Freelancers series)